Crimson and Blonde
by tfbl
Summary: Sherlock is still Sherlock, even if Holmes is just made up. He's a 5,000 year old Vampire whom has just met his Mate. Of course, John Watson has no idea and never will if Sherlock has anything to say about it. A character whom is genderfluid as well as another that is pansexual feature very heavily in this so if the concept bothers you read this as you choose.
1. Chapter 1

Just to be clear, the short "half chapters" are flashbacks in a sense, and are not necessarily in correlation to the main chapter itself.

_**Do not own Sherlock.**_

**Crimson and Blonde**

**Chapter .01**

Blood in crystal goblets, the liquid appearing black in the candlelight.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE**

Sherlock could not tell you the exact date nor the location of his birth (and yes, _born_ he was, just as Mycroft and their parents before them). You might assume this would vex him, not being able to be accurate in everything that concerns his life. In truth it does not. No. He's narrowed it down to roughly 5,000 BC and (quite possible) somewhere in the forests of what would much, much latter become Russia.

Roughly and quite possible.

Vague to say the least, but he's alright with that. Just as he's alright with the fact that he can't remember his first taste of human blood, his last taste of chocolate liquor, nor when he first killed with regret.

If there's one thing he's learned it's that if one of his kind cannot recall something it is not worth doing so, for in the expanse of their life it was of no importance.

Something that Sherlock can say with absolute certainty that he remembers are his parents.

His father was a tall man with pale skin, black hair and deep gray eyes. Height that both his children inherited, to be sure.

Mummy, unlike Father, possessed features quite like those of her younger son, with almost sable hair and bright blue eyes, and although not quite as tall as father, she often appeared to tower over him when she was angry with him for being particularly stubborn and arrogant – asshole would be the modern term.

One might expect their parents to have been distant and cold, maybe even abusive, after a fashion.

This was not the case.

Their Father was stern, sarcastic, egotistical, and normally stubborn beyond belief, yet he was also a protective and gentle man, readily administering affection, praise, and advise on his children and wife. His temper did rival Mummy's at times, so yelling was far from unheard of, but never did he deal out the slightest hint of maltreatment. He was practical as well, cautioning his sons about the appropriate dangers of rouge werewolves, sunlight, the irreversible effects white oleander and other such things, but he was not one to embellish them. Not one to make up tales of children happening upon them because of their own mischief, of humans bottling the sun or of an ancient spirit that administered white oleander to misbehaving children as they slept.

Nor did he suffer fools, which was why he insisted that in addition to learning from the scroll collection, his sons must also have a full range of practical knowledge. He would often take his sons out and teach them about the animals in the area, the medicinal purposes and dangers of herbs, testing the accuracy of the claims that they read, and even educating them about the humans that lived nearby (that they were not simply food but were intelligent s beings with families and culture all their own and must be respected, which was why they only drained the ones that were close to death).

Mummy, like Father, was stubborn and possessed a temper, but for the most part that was where the similarities ended. She was more inclined to laughter and smiles than sarcasm and sternness (although she did that remarkably well when she wanted to). She was the one whom made their clothing, who taught he and Mycroft how to skin the animals and tan the hides, how to shape it to fit their bodies. She enjoyed learning and encouraged the same in her children and, while affectionate, was more reserved then Father_._ Particle she was, but she was also fond of stories. Marvelous tales of witches flying amongst the stars, talking animals and Gods toying with the lives of mortals and immortals alike, of demons and sentient water and fairies with brilliantly patterned wings.

_(((((((((((_

He was eight and there was a war on. There had been one on for years, although neither he nor Mycroft had been aware of it. Father and Mummy had grown up in the midst of wars – six, to be precise – and had not wanted their children to live in its shadow as they had done.

Throughout all the wars Vampires had been at the center of it regardless of their lack of numbers (astonishingly stupid of them, really). Before it had been between Witches. Now, for the past thirty years, in fact, Werewolves were considered the enemy.

Extremely large both in wolf and human form, very intelligent, terribly fast, as well as fierce fighters. It was a mistake to engage them, especially over something as abundant as land.

Engage his kind did, however.

If they had not then Sherlock and Mycroft would never have been awoken just before dawn, their parents eye's terrified as they yanked them from the bed and their grip tight around their arms. Father and Mummy had ran through the forest going faster then they'd ever gone before, their feet a blur as they pulled them along headless to Mycroft's worried queries and Sherlock's tear stained face.

There was loud noises behind them, crashing and thumping along with heavy breathing. Lots of noise. Like the wolf packs in the forest only bigger. Much bigger.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

They had reached a large waterfall, behind which was a long, narrow tunnel that lead deep into the rock face. Without pause Mummy flung Mycroft down it, Father shoving Sherlock down after him moments latter.

The rock is wet as Sherlock slides down, crashing into Mycroft at bone breaking speed.

Mycroft does not utter a sound.

Instead he wraps an arm across his younger brother's chest and crushes him to his body, his other hand going up to cover his mouth least any sound escape. The tunnel is pitch black, completely devoid of light. They are safe down here from the sun, but what of whatever they are running from? What of Father and Mummy? Their footsteps have already faded away, their sharp order of "Stay!" ringing in Sherlock' s ears, that _law_ forcing him and Mycroft to obey.

Why aren't they with them? They need a place to hide from the dawn sun too.

Those loud animal noises are getting louder and louder now. Within seconds Sherlock can tell they are right on top of them and Mycroft curls his larger body around his brother even tighter in an instinctive attempt to protect him, his lips brushing the back of his neck as he does so. Sherlock digs his nails into Mycroft's arm, headless of the blood he's drawing.

_Don't let go, Brother. Don't let go._

The sounds above them have become fainter, if only just. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft's hold upon the other loosens.

It happens within seconds.

Snarls and hisses and tearing flesh.

Blood splattering the ground, teeth snapping and bones breaking and screams of pain coupled with howls of agony.

Skin burning.

Blood boiling.

Hair scorching.

Blisters oozing.

Fire catching.

Screaming.

Two long, drawn out screams.

The screams stop.

Sherlock and Mycroft lie within their tunnel, numb with shock.

They tremble, wishing they could get up and leave the tunnel but their elder's order preventing it.

The two brother's hold each other, and within their chests their hearts beat humanly, painfully fast, pounding out the throbbing beat of the war drums.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter .02**

The first time he read the poem was two years after its original publication. At first, when Sherlock read the lines about pleasure domes and maids he had laughed before tossing the book aside, finding the lines themselves as well as the origin of their creation to be typical as well as amusing. In time, however, it had grown on him.

Perhaps it was because, unlike most things in his life, the poem was consistent. A mountain standing firm in the middle of the sea.

Maybe it was due to how, when one night out of sheer boredom, he had reread the poem, and as he studied the lines, as he turned them over and over in his mind in every language he knew, he began to find them beautiful.

Perhaps it was because, as time passed and Sherlock was forced to alter himself, the lines provided a feeling of calm, a sense of safety and , oddly enough ownership, that Sherlock had not experienced for a great many decades.

Whatever the reason the lines were repeated and copied down often enough to flow without conscious thought, weather it was his mind or pen forming the words. Within time they became as natural as breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter .03**

There was not an exact moment when Sherlock realized that Mycroft was different.

That he took both men and woman not because he was attracted to them both, but because he did not notice which gender they possessed. Because he cared about their personality and wit and the manner in which they held themselves, rather then what was between their legs or what they wore.

When Sherlock did realize it, _fully_ realize it, he'd mentally shrugged and directed his sibling's attention to a slight, dark skinned man laughing at the opposite table.

What did it matter? Mycroft was still Mycroft.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER TWO**

Drugs.

Cocaine, tobacco, opium, alcohol, and everything else under the moon and sun.

Plant matter, chemical compounds, and oil extract that are meant to alter perception, to create visions and make a body dance and the mind to do a deadly rainbow twirl as muscles seize and breath stills, as deity's speak and the devils claws gouge and laughter echoes inside of helpless skulls.

They have been in existence since the beginning of time and even if their use is ceased entirely, they will remain, just in an undulated form.

When someone (he's deleted whom it was that did so) asked which species had created them, Sherlock had been unable to say. Human? Vampire? Perhaps both races began the experimentation at the same time, whenever that time may be.

What Sherlock does know is that pure mortal drugs do not have any effect whatsoever upon his kind. The drugs that are required to effect _them_ are consisted of matter that, alone, is more than enough to kill a human outright, whereas with them it only achieves an altered state of conchies.

For centuries, Sherlock recalled, he'd viewed mind altering substances as vile. As a foolish indulgences and something that only the weak partook in.

Then.

Then in 1899 he took a case that resulted in a vampire child being slaughtered in front of him and arriving too late to prevent the parents from immersing themselves in liquid silver.

Too late to prevent them from committing suicide.

Then, afterwards when there was no more cases, when his mind had been nearly consuming itself with boredom and, no matter how hard he'd tried the image of bubbling hoary flesh and the echo of high pitched, terrified pleading would _not_ be deleted…. Sherlock had decided to try some.

Just one shot was all. Just to experience something new. Something different and complex. Something that would make it – _them and it and __**oh please help me please please help**_ – would make everything stop.

So he'd injected it into his veins.

A clear, liquid solution of Belladonna, Ash, Human bone, Hellebore, American Pokeweed, Purple Nightshade, and the slightest drop of silver.

He'd pushed the plunger down and…

Oh yes!

_Yes!_

Bliss. It was the sweetest blood and greatest fucking session and the sunlight sinking into your skin and music flowing from your fingers and so, so much more and…

Everything was quiet.

Still.

Silent.

Nothing.

_This_ was why they took them, humans and vampires alike. _This_ was _why_.

Days latter the drug began to wear off and Sherlock had come to too his brother shouting his name, his siblings hands like iron brands upon his arms as Mycroft shook him like a rag doll and bruised his face with the force of his strike.

Sherlock had pushed away Mycroft's hands and sat upright, feeling nothing a flash of irritation that Mycroft was present and that his high had been so rudely brought to an end.

Sherlock stares up at Mycroft, watching as his brother takes in the syringe lying on the table and the scent lingering in the air. The navy blue fabric of his coat and scarf hanging haphazardly on the back of a chair, as well as Sherlock's exposed arm and _no _evidence of a struggle. Sherlock also sees the expression that flicks over Mycroft's face. One of disappointment and pain and fear and something that makes it clear that Mycroft would heave right there upon the floor if he were able and give Sherlock his own blood if it would purge the drug from his system.

Sherlock sees but, due perhaps do to the lingering effects of the drug, he fails to _observe_.

He had not observed that Mycroft, whose voice was normally quiet, cool, and aloof… had been _screaming_, and that those screams that had consisted of one name and one name only, had been filled with pure and utter terror.

Sherlock does not observe his brother's pupils; blown so wide that not a trace of blue could be found, nor does he observe Mycroft's arterial pulse; the vein pumping -throbbing and pounding a pulsating beat of the war drums - humanly fast, painfully fast - underneath the skin.

Sherlock does not observe the fully dropped fangs nor Mycroft's bloodless face coupled with his shaking hands and not even the small hisses of distress that escape the vocal cords of the one before him.

Nor does Sherlock observe that for the first time in his life, Mycroft had _struck_ him.

But even if Sherlock had observed he would not have cared. From that point forward he was an addict, and as his gaze landed on the empty vial upon the table, the only clear thought in his mind was getting his next fix.

That was the way it remained for just two years shy of a centaury. It did not matter what his brother and sister-in-law did. How much they pleaded and bribed, what they gave nor what they took away, nor how frequent their attempts to dispose of the toxin from Sherlock's home. It made no difference whom was killed for providing the drug, the number of interventions they staged and not even when, in what was perhaps a last ditch effort, they severed ties completely for six years.

Sherlock continued to obtain the drug, continued to inject and make his mind dance even while it was as silent as the grave. His tolerance built and so he began to require a higher dosage, and he'd responded as such, obtaining even more.

He continued to wake up with seamen leaking from his ass and aching limbs and kept on selling himself as well as buying and stealing and almost loosing control and going on a feeding frenzy when he'd come to after weeks without a single drop of human blood sliding down his throat.

Those words that he knew by heart, words of voices prophesying war ran uncontrobally through his mind, no longer a source of comfort.

He failed to notice when human fashions changed around him, wearing clothing at least five years out of date and only altering his coat himself twice within all those years (Mycroft paid for the necessary alterations).

He continued to waste away until he was skin stretched over bone and the bags under his eyes resembled bruises more then anything else and his eyes became as dull as a corpse.

Until, unknown to him, Mycroft held his hand, broke down and sobbed after the twentieth near fatal overdose and Anthea put the couch through the wall and glass through her hand.

In true addict fashion Sherlock did not see anything wrong with his behavior. It was his choice and it wasn't like he was harming those two infuriating busybodies and any human or vampire that he chose to fuck was his business, not theirs.

Besides it was not like his mental functions and observational abilities were anyway impaired, and when his son, Michael, came along never once did Sherlock shoot up around the boy. He always made sure that the drugs were hidden and the child was away or in another's capable hands before injecting the liquid into his bloodstream.

That rock bottom everyone's got? Sherlock's came one day in 1998, when high out of his mind and convinced that Anthea had disposed of his drugs, had almost shoved her out into the last rays of the setting sun.

The sun that would have killed her.

That had never happened before. _Never_ had he been so high that he'd attempted to murder one of his… one of his family. It was there, as he laid upon on the dirty floor of his flat pinned under Mycroft's fangs, his blood coating Anthea's hands testament to the multiple wounds that covered his entire upper body, that Sherlock decided to give up the drugs. It was not just because his brother and sibling were… _necessary_… but because The Work was also becoming effected by his near constant altered state, and The Work was much more important then mere _sentiment_.

Yes.

That's why Sherlock went cold turkey. Why he dove into hell and endured seizures and sweats, fire ripping across his body and saw his parents and Mycroft and that that vampire child as well as a child with a torn throat, all drenched in blood and silver as they stood by his bedside. It was why Sherlock fought like a feral tiger, fangs ripping and nails tearing at anything within reach and muscles bulging underneath his wasted skin, why he was screaming even when he'd no voice left to scream and why he was glad for the restraints that held him.

Because of The Work.

Sure.

_That _was why.

It had nothing to do with the blisters on Anthea's arms nor Mycroft's hunched form as he supported himself against the wall of his little brother's detox room. It had nothing to do with the cocktail of fear-guilt-disgust that was eating away at his stomach lining.

Nope.

Nothing at all.

((((((((((

Of course it was a struggle, staying clean. How could it not be, after 98 years of not being so?

Admittedly, however, it was a relief to let his deductions to soar, to fly across his brain and out of his mouth without any regard for restraint or utterly pointless social conventions. To leave mortals gapping in his wake and his brother stiff lipped and straight backed with disapproval.

When the deductions weren't enough? When he wanted another hit so badly he was shaking with it and that poem of a burning tree and his violin did nothing to calm him?

He took up smoking. Another drug, yes, but not one nearly as dangerous. It was the expensive kind to, and not just because of the 4,320 ingredients. No. It was fifteen pounds per pack because, unlike the low tar stuff, you could really taste the Purple Julie and Linden Bark, not to mention the Rose oil and essence of Datura as well as Brugmansia, the pure Perique and aconite. Then there was the scent of Mint that lingered in the air for an hour after one had ceased to smoke.

When that didn't quiet cut it?

Then he threw himself into The Work and bothered New Scotland Yard day in and day out until a younger, newly appointed head officer by the name of Lestrade gave him a case just to shut him up, only to be astonished when Sherlock solved it within twelve hours and told them exactly where to find the murderer. There were many more cases after that.

_Thank god_ Sherlock will never admit to.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter .04

Mycroft's hair has thinned as well as receded. Must be horrible for him, to have ceased to age with half a bald head, especially since here in this cold and green seaside landscape in which they find themselves, males with thick, full heads of hair are considered desirable.

Catching the sound of his brother's laughter Mycroft stiffens before whirling a sharp retreat to his side of the wooden structure, becoming determinedly interested in sharpening his knife as he stays despite his ire.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter .05

They have been living together for some time, Mycroft and this female vampire. The one with the long brown hair that smells of snow, parchment, and poppies. Anthea, Sherlock thinks she is called. At first Sherlock assumes that, like many of Mycroft's relationships, it is simple companionship that holds them together, but when he visits them in the Northern Ireland and sees Mycroft laughing at something she has said – laughing as he had not done in decades and decades – Sherlock begins to rethink his earlier assumption, just ever so slightly.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter .06

Although Father towers over Mummy by a good foot he seems to shrink before her, having just made a comment that Mummy considers to be particularly distasteful, judging by the angry tone of her screams. As Sherlock watches his parents the moonlight breaks through the trees, causing Mummy's eyes to flash. Father still looks embarrassed for his earlier remark, but there is a strange light in his eyes as he looks at Mummy.

Mycroft, seeing the transition as well, tugs on Sherlock's hand to lead him away even though the wind isn't blowing in their direction and they are behind a really big tree. Mummy and Father can't see or smell them to why must they leave?

"Why does Father look at Mummy like that, Mycroft? It's a funny look." Sherlock asks as he runs along at his brothers side.

"It is nothing, Sherlock. Father is just – um – hungry, that's all."

"Still? We just drained three humans."

"Yes, well sometimes adults have to eat more then kids do."

"Why?"

"They just do." Mycroft points up ahead "Look, see that big tree? I'll race you."

The conversation forgotten Sherlock speeds ahead of Mycroft (whom is thirteen and knows almost everything, so he must be right), because that tree is the biggest one he's ever seen and he's going to win this time.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER THREE**

Sherlock smells him before he sees him. Earth, coffee and oranges all mixed together with the sun.

An odd scent to be sure, especially for a human. The footsteps come closer, halting completely within the basement lab before Sherlock decides to glance up at Mike and the no doubt boring human tag along that are invading his workspace.

Oh.

_Oh_.

The man accompanying Mike is not boring at all. No. Short and solidly muscled, with graying blonde hair, common blue eyes and non descript features, he's not stunning to look at to be sure, but then again most individuals are not. There is something to him that Sherlock can not put his finger on.

Not yet.

It is not _just_ that this man is an army doctor recently returned home from Afaganstain with an estranged alcoholic brother and a limp that's mostly mental. (Sherlock tells him as much, expecting defensiveness and instead feeling pride and an odd thump in his stomach when the man is actually impressed. As well he should be, of course). Nor is it his scent or how he drank sweetened coffee even though he normally wouldn't touch the stuff, and it is not even the way his eyes never leave Sherlock's form although most people can't look away quickly enough.

No. It's something else that makes him different from the dull hordes of the masses.

Well he will just have to find out, won't he?

It is fortunate that Molly chooses that moment to enter the lab to bring him his requested cup of the standard Bart's coffee (absolutely horrible but that thankfully has the correct amount of fresh blood glucose), for Sherlock has just been struck with a faintly compelling urge to scent the man's neck. Stupid. He's not in the least bit hungry, so why on _earth_ should he want to do that?

Taking a moment to compose himself Sherlock fiddles with the dial on the microscope and pointedly ignores Molly's hopeful flirtation attempts – it is not that he does not appreciate the woman despite not having the least amount of romantic interest in her, but _honestly_ if the young witches'' crush on him was any more clear she'd be singing it from the rooftops, and seeing as how most of her feelings have to do with an attraction to his vampirism (yes, Molly is fully aware of what he is) she should really see a therapist to sort out her issues before her emotions deepen any further. In addition it is obvious to him that Lestrade finds her appealing, physically and emotionally so. Lestrade, however, has yet to act on his attraction, for although his marriage is failing (for roughly four years, in fact) Lestrade honors the commitment he made if not so much the woman he made them _to_. At least not anymore. Besides, Sherlock has enough self awareness to know that even if he himself _were_ romantically interested in Molly, the…. respect with which he has come to regard Lestrade over their long association would prevent him from openly returning her feelings.

Composure regained Sherlock quickly lists off some of his habits that he's found humans find the most annoying as he tests the waters to gauge the mans willingness to sharing a flat with him. The man brushes aside the list before agreeing with his silence (he doesn't say no outright, and what person in their right mind would take a one room bedsit over a flat in London?) So Sherlock gives him his name and the location of their meeting on his way out the door, his coat tails swishing behind him, trusting that the man will not show up if the flat is truly not desired.

That night before going to sleep, instead of wandering around London or solving cold cases from file for the fun of it, Sherlock drinks milky tea from an orange mug and manually writes those lines once again, this time in ancient Hebrew, there is a rarely experienced feeling of pleasure in his stomach.

((((((((((((

_Blonde hair._

_A small hand waving at him._

_Laughter._

Sherlock wakes with tears drying on his face.

It had not been a nightmare, so why is he crying?

Why does it feel like there's a stone in his chest?

((((((((((((

Any worry that Sherlock might have felt, as it turned out, was pointless. John shows up the next morning and is agreeable to both the flat and Mrs. Hudson (and she should really change her name, seeing as she's a widow now that her child killing husband's been given the death penalty… but it's her choice Sherlock supposes).

John follows him to the crime scene with excitement practically dripping off him and when he not only determines the cause of death of the woman with surprising accuracy and efficiency, but is not angry that Sherlock left him behind and refuses to accept the money Mycroft offered to spy on him when most humans would have been downright livid and jumped at the chance despite being rightfully afraid of the most dangerous individual they would ever meet – oh yes, definitely not boring, this human. Definitely not.

What follows is even more… well, even more.

Sherlock takes John to eat at Angelo's and John, with his half smile and halting words that could honestly be anything from an awkward conversation starter to a stumbling pick up line actually _distracts_ Sherlock from the case. From the murderer and the pink clad woman and that constant desire to know that is burning in his blood. That is extrondiry, and what is even more so is that when Sherlock takes off at a fast human pace John readily tears after him across the rooftops of London chasing a cab and doesn't walk away right there because _you're downright crazy, mate_.

Then John defends him against Lestrade and his idiotic team during that fake drug bust, even though John's got no way of knowing just how true Lestrade's concern is and that any drugs that were found would be enough to kill these mortals within seconds and send Sherlock straight to prison were he bound by their laws.

Then Sherlock chases after the murderer and is confronted by a pill and a shot is fired across the street by someone possessing steady hands that is clearly a crack shot with nerves of steel and there is a name that passes through dying mortal lips.

Unsurprisingly that crack shot is John Watson whom is more then fine with killing a man _it's fine, it's all fine_ (and should Sherlock be surprised anymore, really? Perhaps not, but he is so nevertheless) and then John is laughing along with him and, apart from the aftermath of the cab chase, Sherlock cannot recall the last time he _laughed_. Genuinely laughed because of pleasure, not for a case or out of mockery or because it was expected of him because it was what his current persona demanded. It feels good. It feels so very, _very_ good.

When Mycroft and Anthea turn up outside the building John stands straight and tall in front of the elder man, unafraid and determined to protect him, Sherlock, from someone whom John only suspects to be a threat. John's got no way of knowing that Mycroft could kill him in an instant if he wished, but he's got a feeling that John would stand his ground even if he were. John calms once he is aware of Mycroft's relation and convinced of his genuine concern (which Sherlock knows is founded for all that it annoys him all the same, for the pill had been the powered form of what he'd once shoved into his veins and he had wanted that capsule. Wanted to crack it open and allow it to dissolve in his salvia, allow it to slide down his throat and feel that bliss again so damn badly his hands shook as his muscles spasmed and heart raced and his mind said _just one, just once more, go on then what could it hurt_?)

Sherlock will not admit to the validness of Anthea's concerned gaze and Mycroft's tight grip on his umbrella handle however, and leads John away, well aware that his surveillance has just been activated.

That night, as John Watson sleeps in the room above and as Sherlock conducts experiments and carefully washes the blood stains out of his mug, he is only parity aware that John's unique scent has already become fixed within his mind and that the desire he felt as Bart's to scent the ex soldier's throat has not dissipated. He is fully aware, however of the lines his pen insists on placing on paper. Lines of measureless cavers and sacred oceans. Lines that had been running through his mind since that shot rang out.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter.07

It takes Sherlock a while to figure out why Mycroft is with her. This Anthea. Yes, she's pretty, but their relationship cannot be purely for physical pleasure (for she would already be gone by now if that were the case). She is intelligent and has a… remarkable skill set, but it would require something truly amazing to capture Mycroft's interest.

The day that Sherlock meets Andrew, a feminine looking man with a broad, mostly flat chest and feet a shoulders width apart, dressed in breaches and tights with a low pony tail and a dagger at his belt, Sherlock does a quick double take before _Oh. That was why_.

So Sherlock shakes his hand and says _I do not believe we have met_ and the fear disappears from those brown eyes and Andrew says, _I am quite sure we have not. _Sherlock releases his hand and continues the conversation he'd struck up with Anthea the day pervious, concerning land rights and archery, and Andrew smiles and gestures with his hand and speaks in a low form of Anthea's cultured tones as Mycroft listens quietly from the upper floor, and Sherlock thinks _This is why_.

**Just to avoid confusion, ****Anthea and Andrew are the same person. Anthea is the genderfluid (transvestite) character I mentioned in the summary. Basically, Andrew is the name Anthea chooses when she desires to be a man, along with things like a ponytail, pants, a wider stance and squared shoulders, and a breast binder. Anthea is her female name, her birth name that she takes on when she wishes to be female, along with skirts, heels, a shorter stride and unbound hair and the like.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter.08

The woman standing next to Mummy is scary.

She has Mummy's height and eyes but Mycroft's hair, only longer, the reddish brown wave falling almost to her waist. The height isn't a bad thing, because most everyone are as tall as Mommy, but that is _Mycroft's _hair. No one else is supposed to have it because Mycroft is the only one who does. Did the woman steal it? And why is it so long? Mycroft's hair never gets like that and he's going to be angry that the woman took such bad care of it.

The white fur the woman wears is funny too, because the almost all of the animals here have dark fur. Mummy says that animals with white fur are special. That they give you good dreams and make the snow. Did the woman kill all the white animals? Are there going to be no more good dreams or snow?

Unbidden tears form in his eyes, the water rolling down his face before he can wipe it away. Only babies cry, and he is no baby! He's four and a big boy! He can even drink milk now, not just blood. Big boys drink milk, Daddy said so.

But the woman is scary and he can't help crying, and it only gets worse when the woman sneers at him and says something mean sounding in another lankywhich when Mummy picks him up and carries him to his room.

It's almost like when Daddy says something mean, but when Mummy talks back to the woman in the same lankywhich, (her voice sharp and angry and the word for Mother sounding strange), the woman doesn't look sorry like Daddy does.

He doesn't like her anymore and he wants her to go away.

He buries his face inside Mummy's neck as Mummy carries him back to his and Mycroft's room.

There! That made the mean lady go away.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter .09

The smooth glide of a horse beneath him, the powerful muscles coiling and bunching in a smooth and steady rhythm underneath the shinning coat.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Sometimes, as in now, Sherlock wonders what he was thinking taking a human for a flatmate.

Such as now. He desperately wants a smoke but can't do it in the flat, for John would smell the orders and know that whatever it is he is smoking is not a normal cigarette. If he smoked a "normal" cigarette the only thing he would achieve would be a horrible taste in his mouth and an even stronger craving.

Then there is the body parts in the fridge and the lack of food, the latter of which Sherlock had actually forgotten was necessary to maintain appearances, and the former of which John objects to.

Not to mention John's nagging concern for what he views as Sherlock's lack of proper rest (he's sleeping his required nine hours per week thank you very much, but of course he can't tell John that).

Of course there is the issue of blood. It is not that Sherlock has any desire to drain John, but rather that Sherlock has to time the consumption of his twice weekly blood bag according to John's sleep schedule and absences' from the flat (and then he must _explain _the empty bags), whereas before he'd eat whenever he felt like it. And _dear god_ can he get hungry. During the day sometimes it's only due to the lack of milk that John leaves for the necessary amount of time. Thank god for drains and the setting of the sun. It's a good thing that he no longer has to drain humans completely, otherwise that would produce a whole new set of problems.

It is latter that day, when John comes back from a walk and makes an enquiry about the amount of food Sherlock has consumed today – went to the park, dirt on his shoes, mustard on his sleeve so he stopped by the sandwich shop near the entrance, eyes bright and color high yet he wasn't running nor is it cold so he… saw someone that aroused him – that Sherlock has had enough.

Slamming down the paper he swings on his coat and scarf before storming out of the flat, expertly cutting through the crowd and tuning out the hurricane of scents and sounds before stopping twelve streets away. Leaning against the outside of a video store Sherlock smokes four cigarettes in rapid succession before heading to the shops.

When arriving back at the flat he ignores John's questions as he thumps down the juicer, a box of special blue nicotine patches, and grocery bags upon the table before flinging himself back into his chair.

(((((((((((

Two weeks latter at appears that pretending to take naps on the couch and regularly drinking the juice from the vegetables and fruits appears to have eased some of John's concerns, at least.

Now if only he could find a case, have a smoke, and take off this infuriating patch.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter .10

By now John has learned to recognize those lines. Knows them regardless of the language or the form that they take. Knows them and is aggravated by them, finds them comforting and odd all at once. John asks him to stop once or twice (or twelve or nineteen) and doesn't appear to mind (not really, at least), when he does not. It seems that around John, the words – words of flashing eyes and floating hair - are always somewhere in the back of his mind, hovering near the page and dancing on the tip of his tongue.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter .11

_Blood, thick and hot._

_Stones beneath him, smooth and cool._

_Brown eyes blank, staring up at him._

_Dead eyes._

Sherlock wakes with a gasp, fear running through him. He stares at the ceiling above him, unseeing. He has not experienced a nightmare in a while, but this one was especially troubling.

Especially vivid.

He can still feel the stones underneath his palms.

Still see the blood and those eyes.

Still feel the fear.

It is a long time before sleep claims him once again.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter .12

The poster offers nine hundred dollars for him, this Negro man whom killed his Master before fleeing.

The Negro man whom killed his Master because the Master killed the wife and raped the children of said Negro man, but of course _that_ was not seen as a crime.

It never is.

Except, of course, when it _is_.

It is now.

It is seen as such, now _now and forever_ by this dark skinned man with ebony eyes, _almost as empty as the graves, they are_ and fingers marred with fishhook scars and whose back is little more then a roadmap of raised flesh _raised by the whip and paddle and the switch and maggots burrowing into the rotting skin_.

It is seen as such by Sherlock (or William, rather, for now at least), a vampire residing deep within the woods, whom is the shade that the mortal has learned to resent and skin that cannot mar _cannot but if he looks and thinks he can see every mark that should lay there, lay there for centuries and decades and hours _whose clothing is poor and hair unwashed and whose accent falls like rolling green hills from his lips _white back woods trash he is, mother most likely a whore, no better then a dog or those half breeds and he's stupider then an imbecile I've heard._

It is seen as a crime, by these two.

A mortal and a vampire, both sets of eyes dark and shadowed, for each have already seen far, far too much.

So the reward is scoffed at, dogs and mortals are driven off the trail, and the runaway hides in safety inside of a vampire's cellar.

The Master?

Well, people go missing all the time.

Take a wrong turn in the woods, have a bad fall from a horse, are set upon by a pack of wolves or robbers.

Perhaps they left, walked out on their family. Happens often enough, even though everyone pretends that it doesn't.

Simple, really.

To ensure that the body is never found, that the lack of blood is never explained.

After all, everyone knows that the most dangerous people live in the woods.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER FIVE**

John is attracted to Anthea. It's obvious as well as utterly futile.

Futile for even if John had been aware that the dark haired woman was a vampire, for all the attention that Anthea pays John he might as well be a wall fixture. Her complete and utter disinterest could not be more clear. As is the case, once their kind have Mated.

Yes.

Mated Anthea is, and to Mycroft no less. Not that anyone watching them would know that they are together, of course. While working, while in public, it is strictly professional. All _Mr. Holmes_ and _make copies of this, my dear _and _here's your tea sir_ and _you do not have an appointment so __**please**__ remove yourself at once. _

Even their private lives are similar. There are separate homes and bank accounts, cars owned that the other would never step foot in. The _my dear_ carries over, as does the tea service and _remove yourself from the premises. _

If anyone would observe however, they would see the soft smiles and the way their hands nearly brush, the manner in which their eyes follow the other and how Anthea carries a lighter even though she is not the one who smokes and the matching rings that adorn their hands. If one looked they would notice that money is drawn out of each account by either party, that clothing and books and alcohol unsuited to the presence of the owner line the closets and shelves of each home and that both pillows always have creases. They would see that the teacup contains liquid that is too vibrant to be tea, _my dear_ is code the same as taps of 143*, and that _remove yourself_ means that she will burn the city and rip you to pieces while you scream.

No one actually does, of course.

John is no exception, and so when Mycroft and Anthea visit the flat he allows John's ridiculous flirtation attempts despite the fact that she does not once glace up from her phone. That day John's comments are centered upon Anthea's deep gold silk blouse, and Sherlock chooses to remain silent rather then inform John of Mycroft's corresponding tie is (which is actually Andrews') and that the blouse was chosen because it drove Mycroft to distraction, for an hour ago it had been crumpled up on the floor at their feet – in the kitchen of their Greater London home, as is evidenced by the odor of Maple that clings to the fabric.

After Mycroft and Anthea have left John, in a fit of embarrassed frustration, mutters something unflattering in regards to her name and that "infernal Blackberry".

Out of sight behind John's back Sherlock's lip twitches in amusement, for although Anthea was her birth name, Andrew was not far behind. As for altering the name in accordance to the current body that is on portrayal, that is, more or less, a matter of personal choice. Those two names have not always been the sole ones, however, just as she has not always been his Mycroft's Personal Assistant.

Since the first time Sherlock made Andrews' acquaintance there have been a verity of names as well as professions, almost all of them by Mycroft's side.

Beatrice, Viktor, Antony, Pamela, Iris, and Elizabeth.

A Nun to his Priest, antique dealer to his pawnbroker, cop to his deputy, maid to his stable hand.

Liam, Emily, Margret, Jacob, Catherine, Helena, Thomas, and George.

Queen to his King, mayor to his governor, slave to his master, inventor to his scientist, lady to his lord.

Charles, April, Olivia, Hannah, Alexandria, Robert, Matthew, Jonathan, and Lucinda.

Doctor to his Painter, helper to his cripple, librarian to his professor, spinner to his weaver, solider to his medic.

As for that Blackberry? Besides being essential for her current employment, it is hardly the last thing that has been glued to her hand.

A long bow, revolver, knife and sword, stone tablets and animal skin scrolls, sharpened sticks and spears, chipped bones and predator's fangs and twisted human flesh and tasers and cowhide whips have all had their place within her grasp. Even now, at times, the knife and gun make their way back.

The Blackberry is simply her current weapon of choice.

*** 143 is code for I love you (One letter in I, Four in Love, and three in You).**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter.13

_It's all fine_, John had said. Sherlock had spoken sharply for a moment, there at the table with Angelo bustling past, as the recent debate about transvestite rights ran through his mind.

He doesn't know why they need a label, any more then rights need to be discussed. People are still people and rights are still rights, regardless if that person is a him or a her or somewhere in between.

For Andrew is Anthea and Anthea is Andrew, all one and the same.

Still his sibling.

Still the person that spied and flirted and hacked computers and threw a few bombs while letting bullets fly and got their hands much more than a little dirty over at every branch of M*.

Still the one whom holds Mycroft's hand and averts international crisis before they happen.

Still the woman that refused the advances of Henry VII and the man whom forces Mycroft to watch the National Geographic channel.

Still the person that Sherlock could not imagine his life without.

That night, while John is asleep and Andrew comes to visit after a two week long absence, dressed in a suit that costs more then the building they are standing in and arguers with him and drinks wine and gestures with his hand and _almost_ wins (once again) at Go as laughter builds in his throat… it is still the same.

*** "M" refers to the British Directorate of Military Intelligence (more or less the secret service), all branches of which are described here: **** wiki/Directorate_of_Military_Intelligence#Sections**


End file.
